


He's Biochem. She's Engineering.

by otherpartyfavors, Wholedamntime (orphan_account)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Better Together: A FitzSimmons Partnered Exchange, F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherpartyfavors/pseuds/otherpartyfavors, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Wholedamntime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the FitzSimmonsNetwork Better Together Exchange on Tumblr for Tumblr users Jeemmasimmons and hillmarias by otherpartyfavors and mrsdecaestecker (wholedamntime--who made the awesome gifset on tumblr!). Prompt: Fitz is the biochemist, and Jemma is the engineer.</p><p>When a mysterious alien virus surfaces, the team investigates. Fitz, the biochemist, and Simmons, the engineer, are put to the test when one of them becomes infected. AKA Episode 1x06 (FZZT), where Fitz becomes infected, and Simmons helps to solve the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Biochem. She's Engineering.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hillmarias](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hillmarias), [jeemmasimmons](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jeemmasimmons).



> hillmarias and jeemmasimmons, we hope you like this story!! Be sure to check out the gifset on tumblr that goes along with it! Mrsdecaestecker did amazing work on that!

Fitz began his task of examining the victim from the woods, leaning over the holotable (which of course was covered by a antibacterial-antiviral-antifungal cloth layer for easy cleaning) and taking out his gloves.

The data in front of him didn’t make any sense. _A victim found in the woods with a single electrostatic event. No sign of any storm clouds or lightning._ Fitz continued to run through all the details. He narrowed in on the head wound of the victim--the endothelial discoloration was too pronounced for a wound like this. And then there was the victim’s brain--fried to a crisp so that the only explanation could be a bolt of lightning. Fitz paused to think, taking in a deep breath of his apple cinnamon scented candle, before setting back to work.

“Any progress yet, Fitz?” came the voice of Agent Coulson as he walked into the lab, giving Fitz a stern look.

“A bit, yeah,” Fitz said, pulling up the data so Coulson could see. “The sagittal and coronal images just came though.”

“What’s Simmons doing out there?” asked Coulson, before Fitz could continue explaining the images.

Fitz rolled his eyes and looked down at his tablet. “Oh, something about not wanting to vomit.”

“You’re not afraid are you Simmons?” Coulson called out to her.

Fitz turned around to see Simmons giving her best I’m-not-afraid-of-anything face, which by now had turned into a sure sign of the few times that Simmons _was_ afraid.

“Oh no, sir,” she answered. “I just have a bad reaction to the sight of decaying flesh. It’s not fear, more of a reflex.”

“I put out a candle!” shouted Fitz. “I thought that would help!”

“It’s a sight thing, Fitz. A candle wouldn’t fix that. Just like the cat incident.”

 _Christ,_ thought Fitz. “Oh, are you really gonna bring that up? It was one--”

“--You left a dead cat on my desk and I nearly passed out--”

“Guys, can we please?” Coulson yelled.

“Yes,” said Fitz, with a pointed look towards Simmons, not understanding why she didn’t just admit to being afraid. If he were in her position, he would surely be very open about being afraid. “Here are the images of the victim’s brain,” he continued, pulling up the images by his tablet.

“Looks like a burnt potato,” said Coulson with a grimace.

“Yes, well, that’s basically what it is now,” Fitz said with a chuckle. “Got hit with 2,000 megajoules of electrostatic energy. That’s like, you know, twice the strength of your average lightning bolt.”

The lab door swung open, revealing May. “Kid’s clean,” she said. “You figure out why the body was floating?”

“Yeah, no,” said Fitz. “Still trying to figure that one out. Something affected the molecular density of the victim, probably an intense energy source. Hopefully nothing tesseract related. I’ve got to extract some brain tissue samples--”

“It’s happening again, sir!” Simmons yelled out.

“Come on, Simmons, you know I have to do this--” said Fitz, once again rolling his eyes at her sensitivity to his work.

“No, Fitz! There’s another electrostatic event occurring, and close by--just under 20 kilometers, sir!”  

Without a moment’s pause, Coulson and May were heading out the lab into the cars.

...

The smell of hay and mud filled Fitz’s nostrils as he watched Bashful make his way around the body in the old barn. Another body, another electrostatic pulse, but still no answers. Fitz eyed Simmons as she directed the drone towards the body, close enough for it to receive a static shock.

He jumped slightly as the body fell with a _thump_ , wincing at the sound.

“Oh, goodness!” said Simmons, catching the drone as it bounced off her head. “Did anyone else notice the metal scraps across the room? As if there was a magnetic field around him? I would think it amazing in another--”

“--another circumstance, yeah.” Fitz finished. “I still don’t get these wounds. Something’s really off about them, yeah?” He took a few close up photos, wondering what weapon could have done this, or what person. “Best get back to the lab and run some more tests.”

“Skye, what did you find out about the firehouse?” came Coulson’s voice through the intercom.

“Turns out they sent an engine to New York with a dozen volunteers after the Chitauri invasion,” Skye answered, glancing over towards Fitz at the body now in a box on the ground. “Including Cross and Walen. Maybe it has something to do with how they were targeted?”

“Or how they were killed,” interjected Ward.

“You mean, like, any alien weapon?” asked Skye.

Fitz glanced down at the body again. _The Chitauri_. Perhaps that’s why the wound looked so strange--the weapon may not have been from Earth.

“Let’s just make sure we get to those firefighters before anyone else does,” said Coulson.

...

“What are you looking at?” asked Skye to Fitz, leaning against the lab counter, while Coulson, May, and Ward were investigating the firehouse.

“Oh Skye,” Simmons started, “my eyes are closed, clearly I’m not looking at anythi--”

Fitz couldn’t help but look up and snort at Simmons, bouncing on her feet with her eyes squeezed shut.

“Ah, Simmons,” said Skye, “I was talking to Fitz.”

“Oh, right,” said Simmons, still with her eyes closed, and only opening them once her hands landed on her tablet.

Skye looked back to Fitz, both of them trying to keep from laughing. “So, what are you looking at?” she asked again.

“It’s these ruddy wounds,” he said, placing his gloves down on the counter with a little too much force. “I can’t make sense of them. At first they looked like entry wounds, you know? Something like a bullet entering the body, but I don’t think that’s right. I think they’re exit wounds.”

Simmons piped up from behind her tablet, still trying not to look at the body, “what if the brain was over loaded? Past the threshold of normal electrical capacity, and therefore causing it to discharge, like an EMP!”

“That would be spot on if there was an external source, but that’s what I’m trying to say, it’s the opposite. It came _from_ the victim.”

Simmons scrunched up her nose as she looked at the body, barely opening her eyes. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Fitz couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the familiar crinkle of Simmons’ nose. He held it together, as she started to say “Well, maybe there was--”

“Something’s happening,” Skye called out, pulling up an image to the monitor within a matter of seconds. “Satellites picking up another reading. It’s coming from the firehouse.”

Simmons immediately started analyzing the data in front of her, while Fitz cursed under his breath. He was not looking forward to taking apart another victim.

Over the intercom May called out, “Fitzsimmons, are you seeing this?” and within moments the monitor was filled with video feed of a Chitauri helmet.

Fitz mind began to race. “It’s just a helmet. How did that cause a cranial discharge?” He said the last sentence to himself more than anything, trying to put the puzzle pieces together before another person got hurt.  

More muffled voices started streaming through the intercom:

“--the first time anyone’s touched it was a couple nights ago--”

“--why?” asked the voice that Fitz recognized as Coulson’s.

“It has rust all over it, we were cleaning it--”

“Rust?” said Fitz, and then it all clicked. “That wasn’t rust! Don’t touch it May! Sir, it’s not a weapon--he’s infected with something. The helmet must have had some viral residue.”

“--all we did was clean it, I swear!” came the voice of the firefighter. “Me, Frankie, and Adam--we were bored on the 3rd shift, so we decided to clean it...”

Silence filled the Bus lab, and presumably the firehouse, as Fitz’s breath hitched in his chest. He put the puzzle together in a matter of seconds. Now he had to listen to this fireman put the puzzle together, and realize his fate.

“...Adam and Frankie…” the fireman, Mr. Diez, mumbled softly, and Fitz looked over to Simmons covering her mouth in shock.

“Mr. Diez,” said Coulson in a much softer voice, “I”m putting the gun away now, okay?”

Simmons looked more closely at her tablet, her forehead lined with concern. “Sir, he’s at 600 magajoules and climbing.” No response came in from Coulson. “Sir?”

“Clear everybody out,” Coulson said, flatly. After a moment of silence in which Fitz assumed no one had moved, Coulson said again, with utmost finality, “Clear everybody out now.”

“I’m gonna wind up like them, aren’t I?” Mr. Diez said, voice shaking.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” asked Coulson. “Do you have any family? Wife? Kids? Is there anymore you wanna talk to? Anything I can do?”

Again they were met with silence. Fitz could only assume that Mr. Diez was shaking his head.

A beeping noise came out of Simmons tablet, and she quickly said, “Sir, if you don’t get out of there soon, you’ll be hit by the shock.”

Coulson gave no response.

“Sir?” Simmons called out again, only being met with static.

“He must have taken his earpiece out,” came in the voice of May.

Fitz, Simmons, and Skye all looked towards each other, knowing the shock was bound to discharge at any moment.

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” said Fitz, trying to calm himself down as he thought of Mr. Diez, and possibly Coulson, becoming victims of this electrostatic discharge. All they could do was wait until Coulson, or someone else, voiced their status over the intercom.

 

...

Fitz watched Simmons she scanned his teammates for electrostatic energy, his mind already working through the steps of creating an antiserum. _Find out how the virus works. Isolate antibodies. Figure out if our propagating solutions work on alien viral material..._ If he kept his mind busy, he didn’t have to think about the man behind the new body for him to examine. If he kept his mind busy, the body was just a body, not Mr. Diez.

“All clear!” he heard Simmons chirp, and he could tell she was trying to stay positive, rather unsuccessfully. “No traces of electrostatic energy--should be good to go back on the bus.”

“What about the other firefighters?” Skye asked, looking to Fitz.

“They’ll be quarantined and observed by SHIELD,” he answered. “Gotta make sure this doesn’t spread any further.”

“Um,” Skye continued, “anyone else notice they’re putting the infected alien thing on our truck?”

“We’re flying it to the Sandbox,” Coulson replied, looking grim.

“The Sandbox?” Skye asked, and Fitz was reminded of how strange SHIELD names must sound to those outside of the system.

“It’s a SHIELD facility,” Fitz answered. “Based in West Africa--they specialize in this sort of thing.”

“If what you suspect is true,” Coulson said, turning towards Fitz, “that we’re dealing with a virus, than those firefighters could be infected, and we’re gonna need a cure.” He paused, looking Fitz directly in the eye. “Find one.”

Fitz nodded. “I know, sir. Already working on it.” He motioned to his temple. If he could pretend he was confident, perhaps it would become the reality.  

…

A few hours had passed, and Fitz was almost giddy with adrenaline. He was progressing beautifully with his research, and had finally figured out how the virus spread: electrostatic shock.

“Sir,” Fitz called to Coulson over the intercom, “you’re gonna want to come see this.”

“I’ll be right there,” Coulson answered, and within a moment or two, he walked into the lab.

“So what did you find?” He asked.

Not wanting to spoil the surprise, Fitz motioned to the monitor with his chin. “Just wait for it, Sir, you’ll see soon enough.”

“What am I looking for exactly?” Coulson asked, squinting at the blood sample displayed as if it were the script of a different language.

“Just… look,” Fitz said, trying not to get impatient that Coulson wasn’t as excited as he was. Suddenly, a tiny shock traveled from one blood cell to another. “That! There!” Fitz said, pointing to the screen and jumping to his feet. “Did you see it?”

“What was that?” Coulson asked, trying not to laugh at Fitz’s enthusiasm.

“That was a groundbreaking discovery, if I do say so myself. The friction of cleaning the helmet obviously activated the Chitauri organism--”

“--hang on, these cells are from the firefighters?” Coulson asked.

“Yeah! Yes, brain cells, to be exact. Only way to study the virus is to look at the cells.” Fitz began looking over his comprehensive notes, not wanting to leave any details from Coulson. “Some viruses stay dormant in host cells for years, like the cells on the helmet, but we can see now that this virus could spread person to person, not just from the helmet.”

“From person to person…” repeated Coulson.

“Yes. And from electrostatic shock! It’s just wild, sir, actually wild. And alien. Just, nothing we’ve ever seen before. I mean, we don’t have anything close here on Earth. The virus altered the hosts’ molecular density and polarity! That’s just.. something wrong, sir?” Fitz had just noticed that Coulson had stepped away from the desk and out of the lab.

“I’m so sorry, Fitz.” Coulson’s hand slowly lifted and moved to close the lab door, signalling the containment alarm.

In the corner of his eye, Fitz noticed something move, and looked over to see a screwdriver float in the air for a moment before falling to the floor. He could feel his stomach plummet with the screw driver, suddenly hit with the realization that he was infected, too.

…

He didn’t want to look at them. He just wanted to work. Thirty-two minutes and 47 seconds had passed since the screwdriver fell, time in which Fitz had figured out when he most likely contracted the virus, and how long he had until the electrostatic pulse would release. It was also enough time to note the unsettling seriousness in Coulson’s voice, the stoic but concerned glances of May and Ward, and the heavy tears falling from Skye’s face.

Yet their subtle and not-so-subtle concern was nothing compared to Simmons, who insisted on bouncing around the loading bay, sporting the waned but enthusiastic smile of child who was about to burst into either laughter or tears. He knew she was trying to make him feel better, but with every nervous chuckle he became more and more aware of how unnatural she was acting.

Before long he had slumped down onto the floor, starting to feel the physical effects of the virus and needing a moment to organize his thoughts. He barely noticed when Simmons did the same, leaning her back against his, with the glass door in between them. When he did notice her there, he almost got up. She was too close. He couldn’t ignore her this way. Yet the closeness was too much of a comfort to actually get up, so he stayed there, feeling both the enormity of what this virus could mean and the warmth that came with his lab partner.

“Well, if this doesn’t do it,” piped up Simmons sometime later, tapping on the glass with her new device after the rest of the had gone upstairs, “we’ll have to go with a different metal. Something perhaps that can withstand the mineralized solution with higher sufficiency, yet still conduct the needed megajoules of energy. Now the success here is being able to suspend the antiserum--”

“--Simmons, please. I can’t even hear myself think,” Fitz said through gritted teeth, standing up and taking the device from the transfer shoot. As he walked over to the lab table to insert the antiserum solution, he could see Simmons shake off a hurt look in the corner of his eye.

“Oh, right,” Simmons chirped, voice shaking slightly this time in a way that made Fitz want to hide in the storage closet. “You know me, always blabbing away potential mechanical designs, never really noticing if anyone’s listening--”

“You’re doing it again.” This time, Fitz managed to hold a weak smile when he stopped her sentence. She smiled back at him, genuinely, and Fitz almost broke as he made his way over to the test rats. _Why was it so bloody hard to look at her?_ Fitz thought. “All right,” he said, beginning to narrate his next steps to Simmons, as their usual habit when conducting experiments, “the antibodies in the antiserum should attack the virus’ antigens. That is, assuming these alien buggers have antigens...”

Grabbing hold of the rat, Fitz applied the antiserum with a small static pulse, then put the rat down, and waited. Before he could even count to ten, the rat released a pulse, floating up unconsciously, with an absent look in its eyes. Fitz shut his eyes let out a long, slow breath, trying unsuccessfully to hold in his emotions. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had kicked his nearby chair, knocking it over with a loud thud.

“Oh, now Fitz,” Simmons piped up again, in a voice so high Fitz wanted to kick something else, “that really won’t help.”

“You think I don’t know that, yeah?” He rounded on her. “Would you just shut up and let me think?”

“Please, as if I could stop you from thinking,” Simmons yelled back, visibly brushing off her hurt at his outburst and charging forward. “Or over-thinking for that matter…”

“Over-thinking? That’s what you think I’m doing? That’s why the antiserum didn’t work? Didn’t cross your mind that it could be your device, now, did it?” he shouted out, not sure where all of his anger was coming from, or why exactly he was targeting Simmons, but something about it felt good enough to continue.

“ _My_ device? Really? You’re just being ridiculous--”

“Ridiculous? You know what’s ridiculous?” Fitz said, walking forward, now standing right in front of the glass door, with Simmons behind it. “Dragging your lab partner into this flying circus of an aeroplane, with bloody alien shite all over the place--”

“Oh, don’t you even dare!” Simmons voice had hit a volume and seriousness Fitz wasn’t prepared for. “Don’t you _dare_ put this on me! I didn’t drag you anywhere--”

“--you may as well have,” Fitz said, throwing up his hands in hopelessness, “You said, and I quote, ‘Oh, Fitz, it’ll be the perfect opportunity to see the world. We’d be fools to pass this up!’”

Angry tears were now starting to stream down Simmons face. “First of all, that is not at all what I sound like. Second of all, are you really insinuating that it’s my fault you have this virus?” Her voice cracked and a shiver went down Fitz’s spine. “And third of all, don’t you dare pretend like these last few months haven’t been the highlight of your entire pasty life!”

Before Fitz could even begin to address how he didn’t mean to make it seem the virus was her fault, he found himself reacting. “Pasty?” he yelled. “And when did you become so sunkissed? Pretty sure you’ve been next to me for the past ten years, give or take a few months. At the Academy, at Sci-Ops, this plane--you’ve been beside me the whole damn time!”

Simmons sucked in a rattled breath before letting out a sob, covering her face with her hands. Fitz looked at her in shock, vaguely noting the tears on his own face and how it suddenly became agonizingly difficult to breath. He hated, hated, with every fiber in his being, seeing her this miserable. He wanted to hold her. He had never really done that before, but he suddenly had the urge to hold her and never, _ever_ , let go.

She finally looked up from her hands, eyes meeting his, and said, “You have to fix this, Fitz.”

“I don’t know how, Jemma,” Fitz said in a small voice, starting to walk away from her and back to his work space. He took a deep breath in, trying not to think of how much he was disappointing her. “The firefighters’ antibodies aren’t strong enough. I need the antibodies of an alien--there’s no one to create an antiserum from, because no one has survived this but...” Suddenly something started to click in his brain. “The Chitauri...” he mumbled.

“Well the soldier who wore the helmet had the virus…” Simmons said slowly.

“And managed to survive because--”

“--she was immune!” finished Simmons.

“She?” asked Fitz, momentarily thrown off, as the Chitauri in his head wasn’t a she, “Wha--okay, fine, we’ll go with she. She was just a carrier…”

“So if we get epithelial cells from the inside of the helmet we’ll have enough antibodies?”

“Yeah. Yes!” Fitz shouted, happily this time, as Simmons sprinted up the stairs.

Fitz immediately started the prep work for another solution, while checking his watch. _An hour to go till danger mode. Shouldn’t take more than 45 minutes to make the new solution. It’ll work. It’s going to work. Everything will be fine._

After a few minutes of preparing the various solutions, Fitz looked up to the sound of the lab door opening.

“Whoa, stop!” Fitz said, as Simmons came quickly through the door with the helmet case, “You need to get out right now.”

“I’m not leaving you here, Fitz, that’s ridiculous,” said Simmons, exasperation in her voice, “Just keep your hands to yourself and we’ll be fine.”

“No, Jemma, please--” Fitz felt panic rising in his chest at the thought of her getting infected.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said definitely. “We’re doing this like we always do. We’re fixing this together.”

Fitz opened his mouth to protest again, but the look on Jemma’s face silenced him. The only word that he could think of to describe her expression was fierce, yet she wasn’t angry or sad, but determined. The realization that she cared so much terrified Fitz, while simultaneously filling him with affection for the woman standing in front of him. He felt a warm flush rise up on his face and neck, bubbling somewhere from in his middle. He was fairly certain he was developing a fever.

 

…

They worked in silence for what felt like hours, but the minutes on Fitz’s watch read only 40 minutes, 36 seconds. The rest of the team had huddled around the lab door, nearly shaking while waiting for the results of the next test. The new solution was finally ready, and Fitz handed the antiserum solution to Simmons, which she quickly inserted into the delivery mechanism.

“Third time’s the charm,” Simmons said. When Fitz moved his hand to grab the device, Simmons pulled it away. “Oh, allow me,” she purred.

She strode over to the rat cage, feigning confidence fairly successfully. Grabbing the rat, with her tongue between her teeth in concentration, she administered the anti-serum.

Fitz could tell that she was holding her breath, and soon realized he was holding his as well. He knew he should have been watching the rat, but he couldn’t. All he could do was watch Jemma Simmons as she waited, bouncing on her heels ever so slightly, whispering something unintelligible under her breath, and tapping her fingers against the rat cage. Fitz finally began to let out a slow breath as relief washed over him. _They did it._

Jemma looked up at Fitz, with possibly the most brilliant smile he had ever seen her wear. “Fitz, it worked! You’re going--”

But before she could finish her sentence, a blue flash came up from the rat cage.

Fitz stared at the cage for a moment, barely recognizing that Simmons was saying something about formulating a new serum. There wasn’t enough time. _Not enough time,_ he thought. _Not enough time to make a new serum. Not enough time to say goodbye, really. Not enough time to call his mum, or make his favorite meal, or visit the Academy one last time. Not enough time to retire and teach at the Academy, like he had always hoped._

 _Not enough time to start thinking like this_. Fitz slowly made his way over to the glass door, where Coulson waited for him.

“So, sir,” Fitz started, voice trembling, “I’ve done the math. Not enough time to do much else…”

“There’s still some time, Fitz, you can start--”

“Sir,” Fitz interrupted, simply shaking his head, hoping that Coulson would understand.

“What do I need to do?” Coulson asked.

“Maybe, em, if you could tell my mum in person. I think she would appreciate that,” Fitz answered, trying to hold himself together, as the image of his mother produced tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat.

“Of course, Fitz,” Coulson said. “Wouldn’t do it any other way.”

Fitz nodded. “Em, could I talk to Simmons in private?”

Coulson nodded and motioned for the rest of the team to head up the stairs.

Turning around to look at Simmons, Fitz was amazed at how quickly his mind started to churn, especially considering the vague emptiness he was feeling in his chest. He knew there wasn’t time to start on another serum, and he didn’t have any ideas how to improve the one they just made. He also knew that, despite these facts, Simmons wouldn’t stop trying to make another one. She would highly object to the idea that was forming in his mind, and so there was only one option.

Fitz walked over to the nearby desk, and started making his solution. Simmons didn’t know the difference between many of the chemicals, so she would have no idea that he wasn’t working on the next serum. She smiled at him brightly, and he smiled back. He wished that he could tell her so many things: _you’re my best friend; you’ll be fine without me; I hate letting you down like this; it isn’t your fault._ Yet he only smiled at her, hoping he could at least communicate how happy she made him.

Simmons began narrating her tasks, and Fitz nodded along with her. Finally she turned around to grab something from the cabinet. Acting quickly, Fitz poured a small amount of his solution onto the nearest paper towel, and moved to cover her mouth and nose with it.

She merely tensed in surprise at the sudden contact, and within seconds, had slumped over, unconscious. Knowing one breath of the solution would only knock her out for a minute at most, Fitz ran to the door. After getting through, he quickly programmed it to not open for a full minute, and opened the bay doors.

His stomach twisted as he looked at the vast expanse of ocean beneath him, yet in looking back to the lab, he felt his insides plummet. Jemma had woken up, and was screaming at him from behind the glass. He could barely make out distinct words, but knew she was calling him back. After giving her a weak smile, hoping she would understand, he turned, and jumped.

...  

Opening her eyes slowly, it took only a moment for her to realize she was sprawled out on the floor of the lab. Her body felt stiff, as if she had been knocked out, and while she stood up, it slowly came back to her why she was on the floor. Fitz had put something in her face, some type of chloroform mixture, that caused her to pass out.

Before she could fully process why he would do that, her eyes fell onto the rat cage. Her breath hitched as she saw the small rat, once dead, rooting around its enclosure.

“Fitz!” she yelled, “It worked! The antiserum worked, it’s-- Fitz?”

Horror struck her as she realized all at once that Fitz was not in the lab, and why he knocked her out: he was standing at the edge of the landing bay door, which had been opened wide. Rushing to the lab door, Jemma made to open it, but it quickly registered that Fitz had jammed the door. Panic rose up in her chest, as she began to scream at him to come back, that the serum worked, that he needed to stop, all the while still pulling at the lab door.

Fitz looked back at her with a weak smile, something perhaps meant to comfort her, but only made her panic more as she pounded on the door and increased her volume.

Jemma felt her vocal cords crack and falter as Fitz disappeared over the edge of the plane: he had jumped. Giving one more desperate pull on the door, it miraculously opened at her touch.

Her mind was moving at a record pace, as she ran to the parachutes lining the walls. “He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He has to be fine,” she repeated lamely as she fumbled with the parachute she had never learned to put on.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone barreling down the stairs, and relief washed over her as Ward quickly took the parachute and the antiserum and disappeared over the edge.

…

Fitz woke suddenly, water surrounding him and a large, strong person holding onto him. _Is this the afterlife?_ He thought. _Is there just water? And, wait… Ward? That’s not right. Why would Ward be in my afterlife? I must not be dead…_

As he slowly came back into consciousness, Fitz couldn’t help but flail in the waves.

“Fitz! FITZ!” Ward called out. “Calm the hell down. You’ll make us both drown acting like that. Just stay still and hold on.”

“Why on earth are you here?” Fitz couldn’t help the anger in his voice. He didn’t need saving. He needed to get away from the team.

“That serum you made? It worked. You nearly gave Simmons a heart attack.”

“But the rat died!” Fitz said, trying to work out the situation while simultaneously keeping his face as far from Ward’s as he could.

“Apparently it just passed out. Like you did,” Ward said, motioning to Fitz with his chin.

Guilt started to creep into his gut as Fitz remembered how Jemma was screaming for him. “So, em…” he started awkwardly, “you jumped after me?”

“Yep,” nodded Ward, “and if I hadn’t gotten there in time, Simmons would have jumped after you.”

Fitz looked at Ward in shock. “She--she was going to jump?”

“Yes she was. That’s why you should never jump off a plane again,” Ward replied flatly.

“Oh. Well, thanks,” Fitz mumbled awkwardly.

They didn’t talk much more as they waited in the water. Fitz’s mind was churning at the idea of Jemma possibly jumping into the air after him. She could have been killed. _Why would she do that?_ He thought. _She knows she’s not trained for that. She knows she would end up getting hurt. Why would she do that?_

Eventually a helicopter came to get them. The elegant script on the copter told Fitz they must be in north African waters. Fitz was almost glad he didn’t understand a word of Arabic--he was still reeling from the feelings of guilt, surprise, and anger at himself that all he wanted to do was hide and not talk to anyone. He was also hungry. As he buckled himself in, his stomach gave a loud growl, and, as per tradition, Fitz let out a huffed pout.

Ward raised an eyebrow at him, which only made Fitz feel more surly. Perhaps it was the after effects of the virus, or a mixture of the emotions and hunger, but the more time passed, the more uncomfortable and tired he became.

By the time him and Ward arrived on the Bus, Fitz felt as if he was going to either pass out or punch a wall. He tried his best to hide his frustration when Coulson asked for both him and Ward to go immediately to his office. All Fitz really wanted to do was find Simmons, tell her he was sorry, then eat and go to bed.

He managed to hold his tongue while Coulson chewed him out for jumping out of the plane. Normally he would have tried to defend his honor, but he had his mind on a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

As the two agents left Coulson’s office, Ward pulled FItz aside. “Look,” Ward said, “for what it’s worth, what you did, it was a decent thing to do.”

Fitz looked at him in shock. He couldn’t believe that Ward, one, had the audacity to speak to him when he was in such need of food, and, two, actually said something nice to him. “Yeah, well,” Fitz answered, “I’m a decent person, turns out.”

Ward rolled his eyes and, shaking his head, said, “Whatever you say, Fitz.”

“Okay, fine,” Fitz blurted out. “Thanks for jumping after me. I know Simmons might have got hurt trying, so… thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, as he turned around went to his bunk.

Finally, Fitz started to make his way towards the kitchen, but before he could reach it, he noticed movement coming from his bunk.

He crossed the plane over to his door frame, first noticing a plate by his pillow filled with the most delicious looking sandwich, and then the shape of Jemma sitting on top the foot of his bed.

She immediately stood and walked over to him. She reached forward as if she was going to hug him, but stepped back and gestured to the sandwich. “I made you some food,” she said, bringing her hands up and wrapping them around her neck. “Thought you might be hungry after all that.”

Fitz felt as if he could kiss her, but immediately shook his head at the strange nature of that thought, blaming it on his exhausted state of mind.

When he didn’t say anything for a few moments, Simmons filled the silence. “If you’re not hungry, I can wrap up the sandwich. You must be exhausted--I mean, you’ve had an alien virus for the past several hours; who knows how long of a recovery time that has--”

“Jemma?” Fitz said, smiling despite his dilapidated state, “thank you. I have been hungry.”

“Oh,” she said, “good!”

They both sat down awkwardly on the bed, while Fitz took a bite of the sandwich. He couldn’t help but let out an embarrassing moan as he tasted it. _Forget about crisps_ , he thought, _this is what he needed._

After a couple minutes of silence, Fitz willed himself to take a break from the sandwich to actually talk to the woman sitting next to him.

“Em,” he said, swallowing a particularly large bite of sandwich, “thanks for this. I was about to pass out.”

“Yes, well,” she replied, “you’ve had quite a day.”

“Yeah…” Fitz trailed off. Now that his stomach was satiated (mostly), the emotions that had surfaced earlier came back in full force. Jemma had been there the whole time. She risked getting infected and almost jumped out of a plane for him. He had no idea what to say to her.

“Fitz?” asked Jemma, noticing his blank stare at the floor.

“Hmm?” he responded, looking back up to her face.

“I’m just--well, how do I say this? I’m--I’m glad you’re okay.”

Fitz felt himself melting a bit at the small tears in her eyes. He had to say something. She definitely deserved that. “Jemma,” he started, taking a deep breath, “thank you. For everything you did. I--I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for you. And, em, Ward told me what you were going to do--that you--that you almost jumped after me…”

Jemma opened her mouth as if to say something but Fitz continued.

“That, well--it means a lot. Thanks.” He smiled at her, and noticed that she now had fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Before he could say anything more, she had thrown herself on him, wrapping her arms around his neck in close hug. Fitz closed his eyes and leaned into the embrace, letting out a shaky breath. This was the most physical contact he could remember them ever having, and he was amazed at how nice it felt.

Jemma began to pull away from him as she said, letting out a sob, “I’m really glad you aren’t dead!”

Fitz couldn’t help but chuckle. It wasn’t a humorous thing to say, but for some reason laughter seemed the only proper response. “Yeah, I’m glad for that, too.” He reached out and took her hand. After giving it a gentle squeeze, he released it, still feeling the warmth of her in his palm.

Jemma stood up, smiled at him, and turned to leave his bunk. He sat there for some time just staring at the spot where she turned the corner. He grabbed the sandwich, and, finishing it in too few bites, fell back onto his bed with a _thump_. His mind drifted back to the hug they just shared and Fitz was struck by the rush of warmth that spread through his body. _She’s my best friend, definitely,_ Fitz thought, sitting up and crossing his arms around his chest. _And probably the best person I know..._

After staring off at nothing for quite sometime, Fitz finally got up and ready for bed, once again laying down on his mattress, this time curling into the covers, and falling asleep to the memory of Jemma’s arms around him.

 


End file.
